


Stay

by TheDarkChocolateLord



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Nightmares, The Pyren Brothers AU, Transphobia, do I ever let these two be happy? well yes but not in this fic, well humor if you get past all the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28233903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkChocolateLord/pseuds/TheDarkChocolateLord
Summary: After Loamnore, Bronte has a nightmare about losing Oralie and needs to make sure that it isn't real.Pyren bros AU compliant; credit for this AU goes to SemperAeternumQue.
Relationships: Councillor Bronte & Councillor Oralie (Keeper of the Lost Cities)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I wrote a fic about Oralie having a nightmare and going to Bronte for comfort?  
> This time I flipped the tables.   
> Actually, you might want to flip tables after reading this.  
> But not at the author, please.

Bronte skidded to a stop.

Aside from two figures in long black cloaks working to cut the ropes on one of the figures on the floor of the Grand Hall,  _ everyone  _ was unconscious—bodyguards, children, Councillors— _ Oralie.  _ He spotted her halfway across the room, silver outfit turned grey by the darkness, and was racing across the uneven floor before a giant crack made him wobble and almost fall.

_ Check your surroundings _ , the voice of his old commander reminded him.  _ Assess for threats, enemies, and dangerous terrain. _

Floor: cracked and jagged, full of crevices that would lead to a nasty fall. Light: small, glowing orbs, probably created by the Neverseen's Flasher. Neverseen members who posed a threat: none, actually.  _ Happy?  _ he asked, not bothering to consider anything else before he made his way—more cautiously this time—to his friend.

"Oralie," he gasped, collapsing by her side. Up close, her hair had slipped out of its elaborate bun like usual, azure eyes as cold as the chilly room they were in. "Please, wake up—" 

No reply. 

Bronte felt for a pulse; yes, it was slow and uneven but it was  _ there _ , he just needed to get Oralie out. He knew better than to force her to wake up; if she had a concussion, it would do more harm than good.

"Please be okay," he whispered. No sign of movement, and there were tight bonds on Oralie's wrists and ankles, creating stark, pale lines—he needed to get those off. He took out his dagger and began to saw at the ropes.

"Do you really think you'll be able to save her?"

Something crashed into his side— _ Fintan— _ Bronte shrieked, dagger slipping.

Slashing not into the rope, but into Oralie.

"No!" he cried, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to drop his dagger, but it was like the knife was glued to his hands.

Fintan lunged for him; he dodged and—the knife slipped out of his grip and—no, it couldn't have, Oralie  _ had _ to stay alive but her blood was soaking her silver tunic, it covered his hands—she had a wound he hadn't noticed, another, another— _ NO! _

Oralie's pulse stopped, her breathing shuddered—she was gone.

"Weak," Fintan spat, drops of saliva landing on Bronte's tunic as Bronte collapsed, fighting with everything he could to stop himself from crying. "Pathetic. So powerful, yet you kill your best friend. So strong, yet you can't use that strength to save her."

"I—I-" Bronte stammered, words escaping his mouth. 

"What makes you the good one, brother? What makes you good and me evil? Not this." He gestured to Oralie's bloodstained body. "In another world, maybe they would see you for who you really are. A monster."

"I didn't—accident—"

"Pitiful," Fintan said, and suddenly he was gone, everyone was gone except for Bronte, Fintan's words still reverberating around the room. "Pitiful. Weak. Violent." His voice merged with dozens of others—old enemies, rivals,  _ his biological parents _ — "Thoughtless. Powerless. She can't do anything right—"

_ I'm not a girl! _ Bronte wanted to scream, but his voice had been ripped away. Memories swum around him—himself curled up next to Fintan on a doorstep in Eternalia as rain poured down, nowhere to go, no safe place to run to. Fighting bands of ogres, helpless as his commander was taken down by a ruthless sword. Everblaze, neon yellow, consuming everything he loved—every _ one _ he loved. The look of disappointment and fury in Oralie's eyes after he inflicted on Sophie, and her voice joined the others—"Cruel. Callous. I expected better.  _ She's a failure, she's useless _ –" The voices of his biological parents rose and rose, drowning out the world. " _ She–" _

"Stop," Bronte tried, but his voice was no more than a rasp. The room darkened and darkened, images and words fading, leaving him with Oralie's body, cold and lifeless. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to yell that it wasn't fair, that it couldn't be true—wait.

It wasn't possible for his knife to slip like that, it wasn't possible for someone to die that fast, it wasn't possible for there to be that many injuries he hadn't noticed, that much blood—it just  _ wasn't _ . 

He had to be dreaming.

Bronte sat upright in bed, his breath uneven and tense and quick as he dashed out the door of his bedroom, not bothering with shoes despite the cold hardwood floors. He burst out of his house, racing down the stone path to the castle next door. He didn't care about how late it had to be, how everyone was probably sleeping; he  _ needed  _ to make sure that Oralie was okay.

He knocked, shivering in the cold night air. He should have taken his cloak. It seemed like an eternity, yet at last he heard footsteps, and a moment later, Oralie appeared at the door. 

"Bronte? Are you all right?"

_ She's safe. _

_ She's safe and she's alive and it was really just a nightmare. _

She looked almost exactly like she had in his dream—messy blond hair, silver outfit replaced by silver Councillors' pajamas with pink buttons (he'd always thought those pajamas were overly cutesy and matching, she loved them)—and it took him a second to remember that he wasn't dreaming anymore.

"Nightmare," he gasped. "It was...it was Loamnore all over again, and I was trying to wake you up and—and Fintan was there and my knife slipped and  _ I killed you _ . And—and my parents—" He stopped, voices still echoing in his head.

_ She can't do anything right. _

He knew that every word in that sentence was wrong, yet thinking of it still felt like a punch to the gut.

Oralie wrapped him in a hug. "I'm here." Her voice was quiet, yet against the silence of the night it might have been a shout, overwhelming Bronte's thoughts and fears. "You're strong and powerful and kind and you're my best friend. I'm not leaving you, I promise."

He stayed silent, absorbing her words until he just might believe them. 

_ I'm not leaving you, I promise. _

The words reminded him of Fintan helping him after his flashbacks left him shaking, Fintan reassuring him that he was safe, it wasn't real, he wasn't back with his parents or in the middle of a battle, Fintan with reassuring words or jokes or something to help him make it through the night.  _ Fintan.  _

Fintan, who had left Bronte despite all of his assurances and comforting words.

He looked at Oralie—wild blond hair, pale blue eyes, expression clouded with concern—and was struck by how similar those two were. Reckless, determined, caring, dramatic, wrapped up in crazy plans and schemes, they even shared a way with words that Bronte himself lacked even after thousands of years on the Council. So similar, and yet both of them would abhor the comparison to their enemy who stood on the opposite side of this war.

"Are you okay?" Oralie asked. 

How could Bronte say  _ you remind me of Fintan _ without hurting her even more?

He stepped out of the hug. "Fine."

Her hand drifted down his forearm, a motion that he knew meant she was sensing his emotions. "You're feeling….concerned, panicked, a little retrospective….almost  _ sad _ . What's going on?"

"I'm fine," he deflected.

"Are you sure?"

_ Empaths.  _ "I'm not fine," he sighed. 

"That's okay. Do you want to talk about it?"

He didn't want to talk about it, didn't even want to  _ think  _ about it, afraid that his lack of sleep would catch up with him and he'd fall back into his nightmare. "I just need a distraction."

"Come on in, we'll find something."

Bronte stepped inside and closed the door behind him, rolling his eyes at the sparkly foyer. "Does your castle  _ really  _ have to be this pink?"

"Yes. Let's see, we could tackle that paperwork on the goblin-ogre treaty, only that would probably put both of us to sleep."

"Accurate." He picked up a piece of paper from the floor. "What's this?"

"Alina filed a complaint that we're using morse code to talk about her behind her back during Tribunals." Oralie rolled her eyes. 

"She's being ridiculous," Bronte agreed. "One, morse code is a human thing. Two, we gave up on using the elvin version after Emery found out. Three, our current code is completely different. Four, we use it whenever any formal event gets boring, not just Tribunals. And five, we talk about everyone, not just her."

"Somehow, I don't think she'll be impressed by that," Oralie laughed. "It's a good thing that she's got no evidence."

"Speaking of Alina, I owe you a batch of mallowmelt because I lost that bet." Bronte sighed. "Who would have thought that Alden's outfit would be tackier than hers?"

"Not you, apparently."

"I resent that."

"You resent a lot of things, including but not limited to your height, how pink my house is, and my dislike of Crocs."

"They're comfortable!"

"So are sandals, and sandals don't look like someone cut a sponge into the shape of a shoe!"

"They're comfortable." Bronte started fidgeting with the sheet of paper, folding it in half, then folding the top corners in.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a paper airplane." He pinched the creases with his nails to make them crisp. 

"Can you show me how?" 

They ended up at Oralie's kitchen table, folding airplanes and flowers and everything in between. It was late when they decided to get some sleep—Bronte would definitely be groggy the next day, yet he didn't regret it at all. 

On the top bunk, he could hear Oralie's breathing, see her if he looked down, and just knowing that she was there made his own breath a little slower, his own eyes close a little more easily.

_ She's staying, _ Bronte reassured himself. 

_ She's not dead like Kenric. _

_ She's not leaving you like Fintan. _

_ She's alive and she's staying, and you're not going to lose her. _

_ She's here. _

  
  



End file.
